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Come, living- soiil, conic to dwell in TJkraina;Ply across banks with the Cossacks, stand guardBy the robbed mounds of heroes, and wait in the plain,Sharing the tears that the Cossacks are weeping,Until I escape from this slavery and pain.Meanwhile, I have seeds to scatter,AU my aching- grief,All my thoughts; God grunt they blossom,Speaking in tlie wind.Peaceful winds from Ukraina,Hearing dew, will carryAll my thoughts to you, dear brother,Greeting- them with sorrow,You will read them to the end,Recalling- quietly,The. heroes’ graves, the plains, the hills,The land you loved — and me.[1845] Vera Rich46